I loved to shuffle
in your slippers, red plaid
broken down at the heels
for when your car turned
into the driveway.
I’d balance backwards
down six steps and leave them
pointed, ready, warmed for you.
………..
The night you fell
beside the hospital bed
unnoticed to the floor,
I did not hear your falling.
I only heard the phone
later, in the dead of night.
I stood, a stone,
your kitchen cenotaph.
Father, you are remembered.
………..
The first Spring you missed
in eighty years
the rain drenched me.
The sidewalks puddled
in cherry blossoms,
haloes round street lamps.
What celebration this,
pink confetti swirling?
Father.
………..
Every bus stop
every old man standing
stung my eyes.
You loved the Spring
always walking the gardens
among budding trees.
Father.
………..
November’s leaden cold
marble monuments built to glory.
We pile our dead
history weighing the ground.
Story by story, stone upon stone
we stand in silence
bowing our heads.
………..
This now is this day
and today I sit
with memories, loose thoughts
walking through my brain.
I sit, and leaves
brush against windows
in their falling.
I feel the pulse of life
in this house moving
in hushed reminders
around me.
Today is the day
old men and women weep
and remember.
This is designated sorrow time,
and I long to see
my Father’s boney feet
and offer, for the first time,
to hold them in my hands,
and rub them into warmth
for all they’re worth.
Father.
………..
But we can never have
the same and try it
differently, but never mind
we’re all forgiven.
We’re all forgiven.
Tonight I bring these words
to you, my offerings,
paper monuments before
which I stand.
I say I say stand up.
These are my monuments.
I say stand up. Stand up.
What are yours?